Monday, January 05, 2015
Then one day we will find ourselves
standing near a river
the sound of purling water
reminding us of our first incitements.
Yellow leaves will wreath us
like small vanishing suns.
A crowd on the far bank
will gather, their scarves furled,
their hats pulled tightly on,
waiting to return to their own entanglements.
There will be no flourishes, no twittering birds
or wind thrumming in the reeds.
At the edge of the woods
we will stand as shyly
as animals about to enter
their last astonishment.
Someone will be speaking of love
and the words will be falling
like seed-shells into the river
and in different tongues.
And the river will be moving
with no memory of our bodies
or how often we knelt by its side
with open mouths.